Stark
by Mandi19
Summary: When he touched her naked back, it was supposed to be because he was going to shove her, hard, and then laugh wickedly as she sprawled on the floor...But instead his hand couldn’t move from the soft skin he touched. A Dramione fic. R&R please!
1. Chapter 1

_Stark_

When he touched her naked back, it was supposed to be because he was going to shove her, hard, and then laugh wickedly as she sprawled on the floor, her heels shining in their rosy satin. But instead his hand couldn't move from the soft skin he touched, and so his fingers spread wide, to feel even more of her. He knew she thought he was someone else, because when she leaned further against his palm she slowly turned around with a languid smile to meet his eyes, and then it all disappeared and her gaze became black as a storm cloud. If lightning had a source on earth it came from her eyes when she was angry. The brown orbs literally flashed as her mouth moved with some bitter tirade, but he couldn't hear anything. All that filled his mind was what she had felt like. Even when he realized she had already walked off with that thunder cloud trailing on her gown, he could only blink and flex the hand that had touched her living skin.

Since that night, whenever he saw her in class or in the hallway, he would take every liberty and gaze at her with his silver eyes, smoky in all their desire. It unnerved her, and he liked it. He'd grin a crooked grin, and she would glare at him at first, but as the weeks went on, she began to meet his gaze with a mixture of curiosity and defiance. He wanted to touch her again, and he'd sooner be called 'Potter' if it wasn't going to be within a few days.

He knew she would never look at him the way he wanted her to. But he would never force her, because she wasn't made to be broken or used. She was a woman to hold, and he would hold her yet.

A Malfoy was not capable of the love that Hermione Granger required, which was why Draco decided to focus all of his feelings on a physical level, one where his emotions could never be intermixed, like her blood was. But the skin that that blood nourished was so soft, and so pure…it confused him, and he didn't like it. But he liked the thought of her, so he kept searching for her eyes in a crowd, relishing in the one memory he had of touching her.

He finally touched her again one day after potions class, when she had stayed behind to find a book under one of the desks. He stood silently in the doorway, his whiteblonde hair falling into his eyes, his length leaning against the doorframe, nonchalant and imposing. She was walking around with her wand in her hand, looking aimlessly around at the desks. When she noticed him, it was with an irritated look, and what came from her mouth he couldn't remember, because he was suddenly struck at how the sheen on her lips looked like the glow from her rosy satin heels the night that he had touched her, and he wanted to place his own over them and drink and drink and touch some more…but with his tongue.

"Did you hear me, Malfoy," she said sternly, "I want you to stop this ogling charade, right now. You can't go on doing this to me just to be more of a git than you are. It's so tiresome now, Malfoy, and I'm not in the mood for adolescent wars with you."

She gathered the books that she had brought to class and was about to rush past him in a huff when he caught her arm, closed the door with a nudge from his foot and pressed her against the shelf by the doorway. Her books tumbled to the floor, and the black storm cloud was back, lightning and all.

"Let go of me, you unforgivable…"

He was used to being silent now, and he brought a hand to her cheek and gently put his lips on the other side of her face, but then quickly turned around and opened the door, striding down the hall that the room opened into, trying not to grin his Malfoy grin as he left the unattainable young woman standing awestruck in the potions classroom.

Since then, he dreamed about her lips.

He would dream about kissing them, about feeling them kiss him, about their movements and their suppleness and their color and their taste…what had she done to him? Whenever he really thought about it, he would question so many things in his life, so he wouldn't "think" about any of it…he would just envision it. Lust was so much easier to indulge in than anything deeper.

They stopped exchanging death glares. He would glance over at her during a class, and she would sometimes meet his eyes, sometimes she wouldn't, but he knew she was aware of them. When he'd see her with Pothead or Weasel he'd become icy in his stares, but if she looked at him he could feel the ice melt, and then the docility that was always in his spirit when she looked at him would come over him, and he would revel in her gaze. He reveled in her mere presence. To touch her again would be suicide for him, because he honestly felt that if he felt that skin once more he wouldn't be the same Malfoy. If he thought about it more he could probably figure it out, but he wouldn't think about it, so he was left to surmise, and that was the biggest hardship of all.

Eventually, he found out that she would wander alone late at night when she couldn't sleep, and she'd go to the library. The third time he touched her was one of these nights. And he didn't say anything. Just put an arm around her and turned her around, putting the other hand on the side of her face, touching the skin that was his undoing as a Malfoy. He bent down and drank in her lips, his hand now silkily running through her curls, wondering if this was what…no, he couldn't give her the love that she required. He was a Malfoy, wasn't he? He still was. Even though something that sat where his heart was began to beat otherwise. He'd had plenty of girls. Plenty of women. But none were _her_. Their intelligence, their beauty, their attraction…none of theirs was hers. And here she was, in his arms, moving her lips to the rhythm of his own.

He once asked her how she felt safe with him, how she trusted his affection like she did. She simply answered, "I wouldn't be attracted to something that's untrue now would I? My books wouldn't allow the unsupportable to seep into here." And she'd touch her heart, and then she'd smile and laugh and he'd follow suit, because that's how much he fed off of her.

But they were still wary to make their adorations public. Draco felt it too unsafe, especially with the war building up. He was different now, and it was all because of her. He didn't like to think about it, though. It was all a little much to admit to, so he'd simply hold her in the dark or in the dim light and writhe at the inkling that he'd have to let her go before long.

The night that he lowered her down on the magic-summoned bedding was the night that they both knew they would have to part. But Hermione had told him that it wasn't forever. He had been silent in his disbelief.

His white Oxford shirt was unbuttoned, his tie untied and she was running her hands over his chest and his abs. He could barely breathe when she did that. Her own curves he had the pleasure to run his lithe fingers over, and their softness he complimented with his mouth. She was giving herself to him, and in knowing this, he knew no other could have him like she always would. He went into her gently, slowly, moving only when she was ready, and when she caught the rhythm and began to meet him in her own thrusts, he nearly cried aloud, but silence was vital, so he kept his volume low. She was the only one that he would admit to bringing him to the verge of shouts.

Hermione was beautiful, and there was something almost serendipitous about them. They could feel it when they were together. But they were together no more.

When he touched her naked back again, he was falling into the blackness amid a war-strewn field. Her robes were tattered where a curse had burned them, but she was alive. He had made sure of that. He and Severus had made certain that their loyalties to the Order were not revealed until their silence held no more gain, and so when he saw her stumbling under a curse, somewhere near Weasel, he decided there was no more to gain by pretending. He ran to her, realizing how much breath of his ran through her body, under her skin. If she were to die, he wouldn't be able to breathe anymore.

He took that last curse, but also cursed the one that had ushered it, presuming it was Goyle's father, but he couldn't be sure. Hermione's tears tasted like her, he realized, and then he smiled at her.

She sobbed, "You can't go now…there were so many decades for us to grow together, so many arguments and vows and lifetimes…"

"Hermione," he croaked, smiling, "You were my greatest lifetime, because I loved."

He swallowed the darkness that came over him, wondering suddenly if the light would ever come to him again, if it ever could, because, after all, she was not there to make him see.

* * *

**A/N:** To everyone who has responded to this piece, thank you for the reviews! I've enjoyed reading every one of them! If you enjoyed _Stark_, there is a prologue piece called _Hermione_ on my author page. If you just came from reading the prologue, I hope you can comment on the way these two stories complement each other and/or contrast. Continue to review, because that's what ultimately motivates any author. 


	2. Chapter 2

When she smelled the dawn, it had been only one day since the final battle. The grass around her school was still warm with blood; Hogwarts made her see red behind her closed lids. She opened her eyes at the first bite of sunlight, the morning rays resting heavily on her prostrate body. She squinted in the glare and rubbed her temple with numb fingertips. The sunlight arrested her, fusing itself to her limbs and face—she felt stampeded. She turned to her side, leaving the bed's center that now curved with her body's imprint. Yesterday had been hellish. Today would be no different. She inched her face into the crevice of her pillow and outstretched arm. There was hardly any oxygen in her sanctuary. She couldn't breathe—she couldn't lift her chest. Where was his breath?

She cracked her eyes open at that thought, two thin lines against a limp face. Today was fatality-check day, a time to relive every death that had ripped and sewn her back together all through the night. Nighttime had descended on her pile of detached bones and tears; the morning sun reassembled her, making her resent whatever she now was—she felt matchless, as if there were no others like her, no others that could understand her cries.

Her lack of sleep made her eyes feel sticky, perforated on the rims. She rubbed at them, thinking about the bed's concave imprint at her back. She put a hand in its warmth, recalling better days when the ground didn't sound of ghosts, and two eyes always searched for her in the hallways. She bent her head into her pillow and cried.

Hermione was never one to fuss over the trivial in life. So when it came down to healing a scratch that made her left eye seem off center or find a pair socks that had no holes, she opted for the latter. Her feet were still sore from the battle the day before and there would be more action today. It was the day after the apocalypse after all. Finding a pair she slipped her feet into them. She could have mended the other socks, but she was tired of spells. Flicking her wand reminded her of curses and silent magic that emptied people of life, making them drop dread. She pushed her feet into shoes that made her feel heavy, and walked into the hall.

When she heard his voice for the first time, she clutched at her heart and tried to inhale. Turning around would blind her, she knew, so she didn't, but stood, paralyzed. There was spring on his breath. His gaze could see through her, she felt, down to the soles of her feet that were like petrified stumps under very white socks.

"Hermione…" he said softly. He sounded tired.

Her petrified veins began to melt. A hand touched her shoulder before she even had the strength to feel her skin overflow from her palms. But it wasn't her skin. It was sweat, and it beaded on her brow and dampened her breath. They couldn't find his body. She had sat over him, sobbing, as he took his last breath. His last words made her feel like two hands had grabbed her hair and had pulled, hard. She let him turn her around and take her into his arms, hearing his smooth voice chant her name over and over. He had been resurrected, and she didn't want to know how. She was once more matchless, because his arms understood all of who she was. Hermione was not alone in her cries.

Wet words made her tears seem like sand as his voice began to tell the story of a wordless spell that brought him back. The words dripped from the cracked lips his old mentor, Severus Snape. How can someone be raised from the dead? Hermione couldn't fathom what Snape had said. She couldn't fathom that she had left Draco on that rise, alive and wanting her. Resting against his form she let the image of her and Draco trickle between the stones of Hogwarts. She wanted it to resound with his voice forever.

They had only just been reunited when it became apparent that Draco's presence had raised a tumult throughout Hogwarts, and pattering feet not only revealed their secret, but also Draco's hideaway. She tried to keep hold of his hand as he was being pulled away from her. Blabbering voices stung her ears as she lost the feel of his hand in hers. She wanted the walls to close in around just the two of them, leaving an eternity for their bodies to melt into one another. The air on her hand felt cold where he had been. He wasn't dead. He was warmth, and she felt like the earth could taste her ecstasy.

When they saw each other again, he grinned his Malfoy grin and then she was in his embrace, breathing against his neck. That night, they held each other in bed, his thumb lightly drawing circles on her back. She wondered what he thought of her abandonment, what had first crossed his mind when he opened his eyes and she wasn't there. But he had been silent to her half questions, and instead only spoke in half answers. She was consoled with them, for now.

What would she have thought if she woke up and he wasn't there?

She hardly slept that night either, fearful that the morning sun would crush him, like it did her that morning. By dawn, he noticed her restlessness, and reached his long arms around her, hugging her fear, making it simmer into vapor against his chest.

She felt more herself by the end of the week. Fiery and witty like the old days. But her eyes would shift in crowded spaces, as though having just lost someone. She had lost him once; but never again.

When she smelled the dawn again she was kneeling on new grass, clutching at her chest, calling for him.

"He's not here, Hermione!" Luna shouted at her. "He's not here!"

That's when she realized that the dew under her palms was actually the remnants of a sticky curse, and it made her hands smell like blood. It was the morning after the apocalypse, and she could feel her heart give way. It fell, down past her line of sight, burning up before wrapping around the flames of the morning sun.

"He's not here?" she called out shakily, wishing for a denial to meet her ears.

But instead there was only the silence of Luna's hair and a cry unmatched by any she uttered in the night.


End file.
